Page 68 of Snowbound Surrender
“I do not.” She should feel shame at the admission, but she only felt relief at voicing the truth.
He made a sound, but in understanding and not derision, or so she hoped. “It is rare to find such honesty expressed.”
Telling Charlotte the truth of her disastrous match and its dissolution had set something free inside of her. She was tired of putting on a mask with a rictus smile when she did not feel in the least bit happy or optimistic about her future. She let the fierce anger and disappointment bubble up. Whether he could understand it or not was immaterial. She was finally letting herself feel it.
“Mrs. Denholm, I feel I should explain why I was unforgivably rude the spring we met.” He cleared his throat.
When he didn’t seem inclined to continue, she said, “Go on.”
“I enjoyed spending time with you—very much so—but when I broached the idea of formally courting you to my father, he forbade it. You see, there was an understanding in place with a young lady who I’d known since we were children.”
“You wanted to court me?” Her cheeks heated.
“Of course I did. You were funny and beautiful.”
It was the nicest thing any man had ever said about her. “But you were so cutting.”
“I thought if you hated me, it would be easier to bear our parting. I was an callow young man and handled it clumsily. Please forgive me.” He sounded truly repentant.
She didn’t trust herself to discern between truth and lie, but she dearly hoped it was true. Before she could offer judgment,the baker bustled through the curtain with a tray of steaming loaves. “Ah, here we are!”
Eleanor and Callum sprang apart to face him. The baker’s cheeks were rosy, and his smile did not falter even as his eyebrows rose. “Just the one loaf, Callum?”
“That’s right. Thank you, Burns.” He stepped forward to lay the coin on the counter. “This is Mrs. Denholm, Mrs. MacGrath’s sister. She is in need as well.”
Callum took his wrapped loaf and ducked out of the bakery. Eleanor watched him until he disappeared.
When she finally returned her attention to the baker, she found him watching her in turn. “How are you finding Warlock, Mrs. Denholm?”
“Picturesque and very friendly. Mostly,” she added with more dryness than she’d intended.
Burns’s smile was tinged with sadness. “You refer to Callum, I assume. He is much changed from the carefree lad he once was.”
“Our paths crossed years ago, and I couldn’t agree more.” She bit her lip. Gossip and speculation had ruined her reputation. She had no desire to muck about in Callum’s past, but she couldn’t help herself. “What wrought the change in him?”
Burns shrugged. “He left to travel the Continent before settling down. When his father and sweetheart died, he returned with a limp and as touchy as a bear.”
“I see.” She had more questions, but she couldn’t seem to put voice to them.
She thanked the baker and made her way back to her sister’s cottage, unable to shake Callum from her thoughts.
CHAPTER 3
Callum staredin the looking glass and searched for a hint of his old charm. He saw none. He sneered and set his back against his reflection. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to the solstice festival.
He threw himself down in the large armchair in front of the hearth and took up his glass of whisky once more. The crackle of the fire accompanied the drumming of his fingers on his knee. He was unusually restive.
Normally the solitude and silence of the cabin on the edge of his lands provided a balm to his spirits. But not this evening. His mother and sister were attending the solstice festival and would be disappointed if he didn’t make an appearance even though he’d insisted time and again he wasn’t going.
He had had no intention or desire to make merry with the village. Until…
Miss Eleanor Hannings arrived. No, Mrs. Eleanor Denholm. Now a widow. The years between their meetings had altered them both. She had shed the girlish naivete that he had found so winsome when they were younger. It had been too easy to tease her and bring delightful blushes into her fair cheeks.
He’d been utterly enamored of her—what man wouldn’t have been?—but it had been a puppyish sort of feeling. It might have flowered into deeper feelings, but his father had reminded him of his obligations, and he had ended the flirtation. But he’d never forgotten her.
She was a woman now. A woman who had been dealt a difficult hand by life. He could certainly commiserate. He rubbed at the old wound above his knee. Even though the torn flesh had healed, permanent damage had been done to the muscles and tendons beneath. The French physician had told him he’d been lucky they hadn’t had to amputate. He would walk again, although not without a limp.
While he hadn’t lost his leg, he had shed the carefree optimism he had worn like a favorite cloak. After his seemingly indomitable father had been felled by a fever, he understood how close death and disaster crept.
